


No Marks

by supaslim



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fugue Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supaslim/pseuds/supaslim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time does not exist during the Fugue Feast, and masks fall away as easily as they are donned.</p><p>Even an Empress must participate.</p><p>((equal parts porn and plot.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kingsparrow

The serving staff mills about entrance hall, the Emperor and his daughter standing above on the next landing, leaning against the rails. The voices from below blend into an excited murmur as eyes focus on the pocket watches clutched in hand. Jessamine watches with anticipation, a grin spreading across her face. Her father remains stoic, and only the barest twitch of his iron gray mustache betrays his amusement when they start counting the seconds.

 

“Three!”

 

He heart leaps into her throat, and she clutches at the bauble hanging from her neck, eyes glimmering with excitement as she watches.

 

“Two!”

 

She glances back to see both Royal Protectors standing stiffly side by side a short distance behind. Lady Protector Francine is as impassive as ever, her grizzled hands clasped over the pommel of her saber and her mouth set in a grim line below hooked nose and gray eyes. She looks as much like some bird of prey as ever, and she watches her Emperor with the eyes of a hawk. Corvo looks nervous, and only grimaces when Jessamine makes eye contact. He doesn’t share her enthusiasm.

 

“One!”

 

The maids, butlers, cooks, and guards below tense, and a light touch on her arm draws Jessamine’s attention back to her father, who now looks upon her with crinkled blue eyes. He kisses her on the cheek as the crowd below takes in a deep breath as one and waits, hands clasped with their neighbors’.

 

A bell sounds in the distance, tolling midnight in the Abbey. This is quickly followed by the festive booms and claps of fireworks over the river. The servants cheer, and throw their towels, dusters, and caps in the air. Jessamine grins.

 

“Have fun,” her father tells her quietly, and he cups a wrinkled hand over her cheek. “Be safe.”

 

“I will, Father,” she promises, but then she is turning away, and running towards her room as fast as her feet can carry her. As she darts past the Protectors, she sees Corvo open his mouth, hand raised as if to stop her, but he falters as she flies by. A glance over her shoulder shows he has crossed his arms while Lady Francine lectures him quietly. Good. Maybe she’ll talk some sense into him.

 

She makes it to her room in barely two minutes, and soars directly to the wardrobe. She had a costume made, and it had been delivered a week past. The work was gorgeous, a formfitting soft beige suit and a beautiful, sweeping red cape trimmed with feathers, bisected into two trailing lengths just below her shoulder blades. It was a simple outfit, but magnificent all the same. It was the mask that she adored most, though. This she kept in a box on her vanity, taking it out at every opportunity and trying it on, admiring herself in the mirror. Now she wears it for the main event.

 

When she emerges from her room, Corvo is waiting, still in uniform.

 

“I wish you wouldn’t-“ he tries, but a raised hand cuts him off. He replaces the rest of his sentence with an exasperated sigh.

 

“It’s the Fugue Feast,” Jessamine scolds quietly. “I’m eighteen; it’s about time I actually participate.”

 

“That’s exactly my point! It’s not safe. It’s your first, you don’t understand…”

 

“It’s not safe for me _here,_ ” she retorts, marching off toward the main stair. She won’t let him ruin her fun. She barely hears him trailing after her, his footsteps somehow nearly silent on the hardwood floors. “The law is all but void during the Feast, and the guards are all gone. If somebody wanted to kidnap or assassinate me, this is the first place they would look, and they would find very little resistance.”

 

“Do you really think me so useless?” Corvo asks then, and the hurt in his voice makes her stop and turn. She removes her mask, and with her free hand pulls her Protector down to her level so she can leave a hasty kiss on his lips. His frown softens slightly, but he still stares at her with the level of concerned concentration that has the maids talking about their relationship being more than that of a Lady and her bodyguard when they think no one can hear.

 

“Of course not, but you must see the folly. I’ll be safest if I mingle with the others.”

 

“At least let me follow you.”

 

“And advertise to the world that it’s me? No.” They stand there for a moment, neither saying anything; it is a silent battle as Jessamine resists Corvo’s pleading expression and stares him down. Eventually his gaze drops, and she knows she has won. She takes his hand in hers. “It’s just two days, Corvo. I’ll be fine. If you want to make me happy, do this- go enjoy yourself. Don’t think of me.”

 

“Impossible,” he mutters, and this time it is he who steals the kiss, catching her by surprise. It is chaste, but sweet. “You are beautiful,” he breathes when their lips part. and He takes the mask from her hand, now slung behind his neck, and he takes a small step back to place it for her. The tooled leather fits elegantly to the contours of her face.

 

“Kingsparrow,” Corvo remarks, finally placating her with the hint of a smile.

 

“Father does always call me his little bird,” she says with a laugh, and then she dances away, as carefree and wild as the creature she chose to dress as, her cape billowing like wings behind her.

 

* * *

 

The Feast both terrifies and enraptures, Jessamine quickly discovers. The first few hours are spent in a fervor, lost in the crowded streets, being handed strange drinks that taste of cinnamon, Tyvian spices, and strange ingredients she can’t identify by men with faces painted in a blur of colors.

 

The world starts to spin soon enough, and the whale oil lamps glow just a little brighter than she remembered. They leave light trails in the air as their bearers weave through the dark masses of people. She hears a gunshot, but the crowd only hushes for a moment before escalating to a roar again. There is a man she vaguely recognizes as a guard screwing another in an Overseer uniform against a wall. She gapes, transfixed, for only a moment before she is distracted. Jessamine is passed a bottle by a woman in green with a dreamy, glazed look in her eyes, and she takes a sip of the burning liquor before passing it on to her neighbor, a man with a mask like a spotted cat. As she floats among her people, delicate hands brush her waist, her breasts, and she finds herself kissing a white painted woman with crimson lips. When she has had her fill, the woman moves on, leaving behind only the taste of cloves.

 

Somebody lights a flare, and the kingsparrow covers her eyes against the sudden stabbing pain the light brings. Suddenly feeling very ill, she stumbles with eyes still shielded into the nearest alley, barely pulling her mask up in time before vomiting behind a dumpster. The rats watch her for a moment before squeaking and scuttling away, and their voices are like a foghorn in her ears.

 

The euphoria leaves her, replaced by uncertainty. She couldn’t go back to Dunwall Tower like this; Corvo would never let her out of his sight again. Drunk and crashing down from the high whatever drugs she had been slipped had taken her to, Jessamine stumbles out the other end of the alley into a much emptier street. There is a trio of women sitting in a row on the edge of a raised sidewalk, and a pair of men leaning against each other as they staggered along.

 

Jessamine suppresses a groan as she lurches along in their wake, looking around for a safe place she could sleep the worst of this off. Maybe Corvo was right, and this was all a horrible idea. She could get murdered out here by some idiot who had no clue who she even was.

 

“Lost, little bird?” A voice asks from a balcony, and she looks up, hand pressed against her temple in an attempt to ward off the vertigo. Leaning against the railing is a man only a few years her senior. He wears no face paint, and he has no mask or costume. His face is long; there is a scar slanting across his forehead and cheek on one side, and his jaw is squared, giving him the solid look of a man who has been in a few fights and won. His shoulders are broad and muscular from years of hard labor. He seems like he’s a fisherman, maybe, or a dock worker. He also seems sober, but if the bottle in his hand is any indication, he’s working on that. Jessamine doesn’t know what to say him, so she says nothing all.

 

The man isn’t offended; he takes a swig of whatever’s in his bottle and then uses it to gesture to a building across the street.

 

“That one’s empty, if you’re looking for a place to stay the night. Man who lives there is fucking the neighbor’s wife and won’t be back until the Feast is over.”

 

“What if the neighbor comes back?”

 

The man smiles coldly; his words drip with condescension.

 

“He won’t. He’s with the couple next door.”

 

“Oh,” she replies, eyes a little wide and uncertain what to say. He just drains his bottle, and stands upright. She doesn’t thank him, and he doesn’t welcome her, but he does nod before he vanishes back inside his own building.

 

The door is unlocked when she tries it, and it seems like nobody has been here before her. Using the walls to keep steady, Jessamine finds the stairs and slowly hauls herself to the second story. It is there she discovers the master bedroom, and a washroom. She washes the foul taste of bile and alcohol from her mouth with water from the tap, and then pokes her head into the bedroom. It is empty, and if the man told the truth, she would be undisturbed. Regardless, she had nowhere else to go.

 

She was asleep within seconds of her head hitting the pillow.

 

* * *

  
Dawn’s light does nothing to wake her; it is the slamming of the door that jolts Jessamine awake.

 

“Shit!” she finds herself hissing as she rolls from the bed with a distinct lack of grace, still fully dressed but for her mask, which she finds on the floor a few feet away. “Shit!” Corvo would scold her if he heard her speaking this way. Privately, of course, and gently, in that subservient manner he had mastered over the years and saved for when he really wanted her to listen.

 

There are muted sounds of laughter coming from downstairs. Jessamine tugs the mask over her features, then creeps to the spiral staircase, suddenly glad she had puked up so much of the alcohol she had drank last night, sparing her the worst of her hangover. All she has to show for her night out is a moderate headache, with none of the nausea or dizziness some of her previous forays into drink had resulted in.

 

She slithers down the stairs with all the stealth she can manage, pressed flat against the banister. When she reaches the bottom, she realizes the laughter has been replaced by the creaking of wood and soft moans. “Outsider’s eyes, these people are insatiable!” she hisses to herself after she nips through the kitchen and peeks through a doorway to find a couple going at it on the dining room table. Their backs are to her; the woman’s skirts are hiked high, and she is bent over the aged oak by a man in half of a dark suit. His trousers are bunched around one ankle. His partner lets out a small gasp with every stroke.

 

Jessamine watches spellbound until the man gives a shuddering groan, pressing hard into his partner as he clutches at her hips. She snaps out of it, face flushed, and quickly slips through the door she was spying from and darts across the room to let herself out the front door.

 

And she discovers herself in the middle of an impromptu street ball.

 

Judging by the length of the shadows, it is almost sunset again. The crowds from the previous night have evidently spread out and cleaned up, as she sees significantly less body paint and more masks. Somebody has rigged the speakers that hang over the streets to play dancing music, and while many partygoers stand to the side drinking their whiskey and wine, and some are pairing up to fornicate in alleys or slip away to empty homes, there are also any number of whirling couples in the middle of the lane, dancing fervently to the tune, their bodies held what would be considered scandalously close any other day of the year.

 

The smell of food distracts her from the spectacle. She hasn’t eaten since supper the night before, and it would be wise to get something in her stomach if she was going to drink again. She squeezes past a circle of drunken socialites and makes her way to a table of food. A man with no shirt stands behind it, his skin painted blue-black but for a white hand-print on his chest. Seeing her eying the spread, he waves her over.

 

“You _are_ a pretty one. Ten pence and you can have your fill, love,” he says, stretching out a hand. He is wearing gloves with webbing between the fingers. His eyes are startlingly pale against his darkened skin, and he makes her uncomfortable, but the food looks good. She reaches into her cleavage for a coin, and drops it into his hand. He presses the skin-warmed metal to his lips, marking it black with his kiss. Before he decides to talk to her again, she takes what looks like a meat pie from a stack, and a slightly bruised Tyvian pear before vanishing into the fray. The pie is delicious, slightly spicy, and the fruit counterbalances with its sweetness. Somebody hands her a tin cup filled with brandy. The drink’s flavor is tainted with a hint of something like rust.

 

When she glimpses a familiar face in the crowd, she abandons interest in her food. Eyes glued to the receding figure of the man, she presses the half-eaten pie into the hands of a drunk sprawled at the foot of a wall, and chases after him.

 

Jessamine catches the man’s arm as he’s trying to move past a knot of people. Startled, he stiffens, looking back to see who is stopping him. When he sees her mask, his anger becomes confusion, and he is too bewildered to resist when she drags him out into the flock of dancers, placing one of his hands at her waist and the other in her own.

 

She is somewhat surprised to discover the man can dance. His steps are light, if somewhat rigid, and she can’t tell if he’s enjoying himself, but at least they aren’t stepping on each other.

 

“I never thanked you,” Jessamine tells him as he continues to stare at her.

 

“You never had to,” he replies somewhat curtly. Not enjoying himself, then.

 

They dance a minute longer, and when he tries to step away at the end of a song, she tightens her hold on him, forcing him to stay for another.

 

“What I don’t understand,” she says when he remains stubbornly silent, “is why everyone in the city seems to be celebrating but you. Where is your costume?”

 

“What makes you think this isn’t a costume?” he asks gravely. Jessamine frowns slightly, and the hand at his shoulder moves to trace the jagged scar on his face. As if her touch is fire, he tilts his head away with a jerk. Almost lifting her off her feet, he leads her to the side of the dance and firmly pushes her away. “I’m not the kind of man you want to dance with. Go find your Royal Protector and dance with him.”

 

He tries to leave again, but she is fast, and she plants herself in front of him, one hand pressed flat against his chest to hold him in place.

 

“How do you know who I am? Do I know you?”

 

He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound.

 

“No, you wouldn’t. But it’s my business to know people like you.  Trust me, you want nothing to do with me. Pretend we never met.”

 

“Why tell me this?”

 

“We can be what we want during the Fugue Feast.” He gestures at the figures moving around them. “They take this opportunity to become wild and violent.” The man hesitates, and then adds, “What if I want to be tame for a couple of days?”

 

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s still a touch drunk, or maybe her meat pie had a special ingredient, because she moves her hand back to his shoulder and pulls him back into the dance. He still stares at her, but he doesn’t resist.

 

“But why?” he finally manages, and she looks at him through her sparrow mask like the answer should be obvious.

 

“The man who chooses to be kind and honest is a man worth knowing. Even,” she continues, cutting him off as he opens his mouth to protest, “if he’s only that man for two days.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s a wise sentiment,” he growls as she presses her body closer to his.

 

“Shut up,” she admonishes, laying her cheek against his shoulder. He smells of leather and steel and the sea. “You sound like Corvo when you gripe.”

 

“You’re too trusting; it’s going to kill you some day. I just told you I’m dangerous, and you-“

 

“ _Shut up_. I am trying to enjoy myself.”

 

“I’m not your friend, Jessamine.”

 

“I’m not asking for a friend,” she replies, turning her face up to him again. They exchange looks, hers demanding, his almost scornful, but she is used to getting what she wants. She takes the lead of the dance, moving them closer to a wall, and then their dance changes to one as old as Man itself. Her leg twines around his, her hip grinding against him. He sucks in a bated breath, and she smirk. He scowls at her as if irritated she could elicit a reaction so easily, but it doesn’t keep his hands from exploring her body, following her curves. He is not gentle, but she doesn’t expect him to be. When she stands on tiptoe to kiss his throat, he catches her face in his hand, his calluses lightly scratching her jaw.

 

“No marks,” he warns, and she sees the shadow of a threat in his eyes, almost making her doubt her decision. Almost.

 

“No marks,” she agrees. “Is there somewhere…?” She trails off, but her meaning is clear. He leads her with a hand at the small of her back, pushing her in front of him towards the building he had called to her from early that morning. She tries the door, but it’s locked, and she’s about to turn around when the hand at her back cages her in, the man’s other hand inserting a key into the lock as he buries his face in her hair. The lock clicks as the bolt slides free, and while one hand turns the doorknob, the other moves to rest across Jessamine’s front, lightly pressing her against his body. She can feel his need at her back; she rubs herself against him, and takes delight in the way his fingers curl into the fabric of her costume.

 

They are barely inside when they let loose; as the door latches, she is fumbling at his belt; he has thrown her mask aside. He presses her back against the thin edge of the wall that separates the narrow stairway near the door from the rest of the main floor of the building, both breathing heavily as he unfastens her feathered cape, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. She lets out a startled yelp when he lifts her up, then hooks her legs around his back so he’s bearing her full weight.

 

He carries her slowly up the stairs this way, distracted halfway up when her grip on him tightens, grinding her heat against his with only a few layers of clothing in between. He groans, and she catches his lips in hers, muffling the sound.

 

The bedroom is not far from the stairs, and the distance is covered within seconds. The man all but dumps her onto the mattress, tearing at her top like a wild animal, and she assists, unbuttoning where she can and shrugging it off the first opportunity she gets. Underneath she wears only a sheer ivory camisole. He takes one breast in hand, running the rough pad of his thumb over her nipple through the fabric. Jessamine gasps at his touch, back arching against him. His touch is electric, and his smirk suggests he’s aware.

 

He pauses to toss his jacket aside, and pull his own shirt overhead, revealing his scarred, strongly muscled body. Her hands are on him before the shirt leaves his hand; she lightly runs her palms up his sides, around his arms, over his chest, feeling the muscle coiled under his skin as he tugs her boots and trousers off, leaving her in her underwear. She lets her hands fall to his pants again, but he bats her hands away and pushes her firmly back into the mattress as he sidled around the side of the bed.

 

“I-“ she starts, but her words turn to moans as he dips one hand under the waistband of her panties and gives her a single languid stroke across her clitoris, already well-lubricated with her own juices. Before she recovers, he pulls up the edge of her camisole with the other hand, and tweaks a nipple. She squeezes her eyes shut as he teases her, clutching the sheets. His hands ghost across her; his fingers dip between moist lips and make her shudder and twist in the most delicious ways.

 

“Stop,” Jessamine says abruptly, and he looks at her with an expression she can’t read. “I want you.”

 

She is used to getting what she wants, and it is all she says. She wriggles out of her underclothes as he takes off his trousers, and then he is in bed with her, mouth at her breast as her nails drag across his shoulders, through his hair. She can feel his cock hard and hot against her thigh; her legs instinctively spread, and he settles between them.

 

“Fuck me,” she demands between labored breaths, reaching down between them, but he catches her wrist, stopping her. She feels him smirk against her throat.

 

“I didn’t quite hear that. Did you want something?” She knows he wants her, but he wants her to beg even more, and the daughter of an emperor does not beg.

 

“Fuck me!” she repeats, squirming.

 

“You didn’t ask nicely.” Teeth scrape lightly across her skin.

 

“What happened to ‘tame?’”

 

“I haven’t stabbed you yet, have I?”

 

“I _want_ you to stab me,” she all but snarls, seizing his engorged cock in the hand he hasn’t trapped and giving it a firm stroke that elicits a surprised grunt from her lover.

 

“Fine,” he mutters, letting go of her wrist in favor of her thigh, drawing her legs up and pushing deep into her. She winces, and lets out a quiet “ow!” and he laughs, but he also stops to let her body adjust to his girth.

 

When she digs her heels into his back, coupled with a coy kiss, he takes it as a sign that she’s ready, and sets a slow rhythm, thrusting deeply into her. There is no banter now. She runs her hand over his scarred face, examining each line through hazy eyes and feeling the length of each silvery line as her nerves light on fire, filling her core with a liquid, living heat. He lets her.

 

They move as one, quicker and harder, panting into each other’s necks, shoulders, mouths. Her nails scratch his back, and he growls “no marks,” but there’s no conviction there anymore, and she is too distracted to care.

 

He shifts his body slightly over hers, moving only the slightest bit up and forward, but the added friction is what drives her over the edge. She comes quietly, back arched almost painfully, head thrown back, lips parted, and his mouth is at her throat, kissing, sucking. He comes a moment later, emptying himself deep within her.

 

When they catch their breath, he lowers himself to her side. His hands graze her skin, almost reverent in their attention to every curve, every shadow. She presses herself against him, reveling in his smell now mixed with hers. They smell like the ocean and the palace gardens, like blood and sweat.

 

They drift off as the sun does, and the streets are almost silent.

 

* * *

 

The kingsparrow is alone in bed when she wakes, still naked but for the sheets she’s tangled in. For a split second she thinks she’s in her bedroom at the Tower, but even half asleep she knows that’s not right. Jessamine blinks, and stretches. Her muscles are sore.

 

She sees him leaning at the balcony railing once again when she drags herself upright, and the memories rush back like the tide. The doors to the balcony are open, and his back is to her. He had found trousers, but he still wears no shirt.

 

Swinging her legs off the mattress, she fishes around on the floor for clothes and finds his shirt there. She tugs it over herself, and satisfied that it covers to her thigh, she pads out to the balcony to stand next to him. They stand together for quite some time, watching people stumbling down the street, groaning and cursing as they try to get home.

 

“It never happened,” he finally says to her, eyes as cold and hard as the sea when he looks over at her.

 

“Of course,” she replies, folding her arms over her chest to fight off the slight chill in the air.

 

“No,” he says. “The hymn has been sung. The High Overseer has declared the new year. It didn’t happen.”

 

They stand together a while longer, but soon enough Jessamine turns away and puts on her own clothes. She considers saying goodbye, but decides against. When she goes, she leaves the mask on top of the twisted sheets. It is goodbye enough. She feels his eyes on her when she steps out the front door, but he does not call to her. The Fugue Feast is over, and they are strangers. They have never met.

 

Nobody recognizes her as she walks to the ferry. Their eyes are fixed on their feet, or are still glazed over with exhaustion and pain and the last dregs of alcohol in their systems. The boat captain says nothing when she boards, but hands her a flask as he casts off. She glances between it and him with a question in her eyes, and he grunts, “Infusion of willow, for all ills.” She takes a sip, and it’s bitter.

 

When the small craft is steered into the lock and lifted to ground level, she discovers Corvo is waiting for her, hanging around like a crow amongst house sparrows as the technicians work around him. At the sight of her, he is visibly relieved, and when he takes her hand to help her off the boat, something in Jessamine’s heart is lifted as well.

 

They walk side by side back to the Tower. She does not comment on the bags beneath his eyes. He says nothing of the mark high on her neck, even if she catches his eyes wandering to it until it finally fades away.

 

The Fugue Feast never happened, and life goes on.


	2. A Wolf Among Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Jessamine's second Fugue Feast, and a familiar face emerges in the fever dream. All things have a price.

When the clock strikes midnight, there is more applause than usual. As the bells toll and the people cheer, six women in identical ivory gowns descend the stairs, three on either side. The floor below is crowded with costumed partiers. Their clothes display varying degrees of refinement, but this is no reflection on the wealth or status of those present. The gates had been left open, and any who could find a ferry could join the tower festivities. Jessamine had watched them climbing the path; she recognized a few aristocrats in rags and could only assume that at least some of the finest dressed guests were indeed the poorest.

 

As soon as the first two women touch foot to the main floor, a trio of celloists strike an energetic tune. Their faces are obscured with white paper masks. Nobody had invited them to provide music at the affair. They had simply shown up like the other guests, instruments in hand. Now they saw hungrily at the strings of their cellos with feverish gusto, and it’s clear that this is how they choose to spend the Feast. They are lost in the throes of their own music, making love to their instruments. The party guests are but voyeurs.

 

Ah, the Fugue Feast! Jessamine smiles slightly as she takes the hand of a stranger on the dance floor and begins to move with him to the music, until he passes her on to the next. Celebrating within the tower had been her idea. That several other women should dress like her to confuse potential assassins had been Corvo’s.

 

She glances about to see her guardian hovering at the top of the stairs, carefully overseeing the dance. His mouth is set in a grim line. If he feels better about this year’s Feast than last year’s, she can’t tell.

 

The music shifts slightly, and Jessamine suddenly finds herself dancing with one of her impostors. She looks over her partner’s shoulder to see that men have paired up with men across the floor, and women with women.

 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” asks Jessamine quietly, leaning in slightly so only her partner can hear. The other woman flushes red under the gleaming porcelain mask that concealed the greater portion of her face.

 

“Oh, yes-“ the woman replied, and Jessamine could feel the unspoken _your Highness_ tacked on at the end. It was Corvo’s idea to put other women in the ivory dresses. Jessamine had made certain those women were from the serving staff. This girl is from the kitchens; as Jessamine had hoped, she seems breathless with exhilaration.

 

“Then I am glad,” Jessamine says with a smile, kissing the woman’s hand. She sees Corvo scowl at his post. He had seen them, and of course he would overreact. Last year had left him a raw nerve, and with her father so ill… She understands, but she isn’t happy about how he insists upon hovering.

 

The song ends, and both women curtsy. The serving girl floats off to clasp hands and gush with one of her friends, also in an ivory gown and porcelain mask. Jessamine moves in the other direction, towards a table of refreshments. In the way of the Feast, the bottles have multiplied. A pale hand attached to a young man with dark eyes and a mischievous smile presses a small bulbous bottle blown of purple glass into her hands before she can reach anything laid out. His fingers graze her arm, her waist, before he weaves himself into the crowd. Jessamine lifts the bottle to her nose; the aroma is satisfying, very much like the beach at low tide mixed with something musky. She does not hesitate to drink. It burns soft and pleasant in her mouth, and warms her belly.

 

The cellists have unmarked bottles of their own, she sees. They sit at the musicians’ feet, casting green shadows. One of the men pushes his paper mask up enough to take a swig, and she sees that the skin underneath is roughly painted ghost white, as if he had dipped his hands in paint and dragged them down his own face. She is reminded of the men she had encountered last year, painted head to toe in black or white. She wonders if there are carved whalebones pressed against his chest underneath the jacket. She is tempted to find out, the alcohol breathing fire into her veins.

 

The sudden urge to straddle him, to tear his clothes away and scratch at the paint with sharp nails passes quickly, but not so quick that a furious blush rises to her cheeks. It is early in the Feast for this. She glances warily down at the bottle in her hand, then over her shoulder to try and pick out the man who had given it to her from the other milling figures packed into the hall. He was nowhere to be found. Corvo could no doubt locate him in a heartbeat; the royal bodyguard was keeping a watchful eye on every man there, but this is not about him and she doesn’t want to invite his gaze to follow her. It was the only reason Jessamine had consented to disguising other women as her doubles; Corvo would have a much harder time keeping track of her with six women to keep an eye on.

 

Especially since she isn’t wearing an ivory gown.

 

That had not been part of Corvo’s plan, and if all is going as she hopes, he still doesn’t know that all six women with the porcelain masks were maids and waiting staff. He may figure it out if he ever descends to join the party, but the Emperor’s daughter is all but certain he will not unless any of her doubles wanders off with a man. Jessamine had spoken with her father’s protector shortly after she came wandering home with a hangover and the mark of another man on her throat, curious as to how Corvo had spent the Feast. Lady Francine had scoffed where she stood.

 

“He drank, and wandered the halls, and drank while he wandered the halls, and constantly pestered anyone foolish or drunk enough to stumble into earshot about whether or not the Overseers had declared the new year yet.”

 

The knowledge did not make her happy, but Jessamine was not terribly surprised either. Corvo was no socialite, and that was why she loved him. If he treated her well, it was because he found her worthy, not because she was royalty.

 

But his love can be stifling, and so she refused to feel guilty for her actions during the last Feast, and bore her lover’s mark proudly and without comment until it faded and healed.

 

She stops looking for the young man who had given her the drink, now searching instead for the long face of her lover, the scar so prominent on his brow and cheek. She does not expect him to be here, but she entertains the possibility that he would seek her out. He knew her, and did not seem likely to forget her. She certainly couldn’t forget him, and the way his hands had roamed her body, and the way he had felt over her, inside her…

 

“Agh! I’m being silly,” she scolds herself, moving aside as a dancing pair sweeps by her. “What is in this bottle…?” The question does not stop her from drinking the rest as she watches her people move with the music, slowly unraveling into a wild song that could never be accurately put to paper without the heat and the spice of the crowd, the way their bodies close the gaps between each other until they are pressed chest-to-chest, swaying and grinding against their partners. Masks are abandoned as the dancers become too drunk on the spirits and the atmosphere to recognize each other. Jessamine, now seated against a wall- when had she sat down?- feels a pang of remorse for the servants who would have to clean up later, but is distracted by a hand dipping smoothly into her line of sight. She looks up to see the same young man as before.

 

“Dance with me,” he says, and his voice is deliciously smooth. She takes his hand and he helps her to her feet. His touch balances her somehow.

 

“What was in the drink you gave me?” she asks as he leads her toward the cellists, the crowd parting before him without actually looking at him.

 

“Seawater,” he tells her, smiling as though he has a secret. “From faraway beaches. Spices and extracts your people have never heard of. Whale blood,” he adds quietly, and she laughs.

 

“Very funny. You almost had me fooled.”

 

He smiles more broadly, and turns to the cellists. They do not spare him a glance as he bends to whisper in the ear of the man on the end. The musician shudders, his bow freezing on the strings, and his companions pause, their heads slowly turning. Jessamine watches, perplexed, as her partner murmurs something else to the musician, lightly runs a hand down his back, and stands upright again. The cellist sits motionless for a mere second before setting the tune to a new song, one lilting and without melody. The others join in one by one, creating harmonies and cacophonies that soar and plunge in graceful arcs.

 

“I made a request,” the man with dark eyes explains quietly, tugging Jessamine gently towards the dance floor.

 

“It’s like whale song,” Jessamine remarks, squinting as she looks at her partner. She can almost see a dark miasma around him, and while she’s certain it’s just the drink, she can’t help but reach out to swipe gently at it with her fingers. It gives like smoke, and swirls in the air. He chuckles.

 

“It _is_ whale song.” Her eyes turn back to the masked cellists, confused, but she does not ask, and he does not explain.

 

He holds her close as they invent steps to the formless music, his surprisingly large hand at her waist. There is no heat in him, though, and Jessamine can feel the gap between them. She can’t help but remember dancing like this a year ago, when she had had a warm partner with rough features, not this man with his beautiful face and smooth hands.

 

“He will come,” her partner says suddenly, still smirking at her. Jessamine blinks.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“The man you wish you were dancing with. He will come.”

 

“How can you know-?” She stiffens, and steps away from his touch, fear and uncertainty evident in her voice, if not visible under her black mask.

 

“I have seen every possibility, and I choose. These days are mine, and I say he will come.”

 

The dark cloud about the man thickens as he speaks, and Jessamine feels a chill run through her, entirely unpleasant. His eyes seem somehow darker than before. She looks at the musicians again, and in parallel she sees massive dark shapes sailing through a blue void, without ever seeing them at all. Her head snaps back to her partner, but he is gone, replaced with more whirling bodies.

 

Shaken, Jessamine stumbles to the tables stocked with food and herself to a plate. Seawater and the blood of whales, he had said…

 

She tucks herself into a corner on a plush couch, eats her cheese, drinks her wine, and falls asleep to the rhythmic tap of feet on the hardwood and the keen of catgut strings.

 

She dreams of whales, of bright white teeth and pitch black eyes, of a frowning man with a scar on his face.

* * *

“Wake up.”

 

A hand touches Jessamine’s shoulder lightly and she starts. A few other voices groan and mutter, and she realizes others have joined her where she fell asleep on the couch. Leaning on one side of her is a man she recognizes as one of the cooks, his arm linked with one of the women in ivory. They probably recognized each other on the dance floor. On her other side is a stranger, snaggle-toothed hagfish mask still in place, and glass of wine somehow miraculously upright in his hands, its foot resting on his knee.

 

Standing in front of her is the man. Him. The one from before. His face is hidden behind a wolf mask hewn from driftwood, and he wears a pitch black jacket and bandolier that makes him look much more severe than she’d like, but she knows him instantly. When he sees she’s awake, his gloved hand falls back to his side. His eyes are dark under the shade of his mask, and he looks for all the world that he doesn’t want to be here.

 

“I didn’t…” she starts, but the man to her right groans and asks her to “please be quiet, my brain wants out of my skull.”

 

The man, _her_ Man, steps away, silently inviting her to come with. He does not offer her his hand, she notices as she gently pushes the two men sandwiching her far enough that she can squeeze free.

 

They walk side by side, neither leading. The floor is still crowded with dancers leaning heavily against each other, and bottles dangling limply from hands wrapped around waists and necks. Corvo is nowhere to be seen. The music is now the disjointed sound of a single cello; Jessamine looks at the musicians to see all but two now sitting on the floor, leaning against each other as they sleep. The remaining two are still seated; one has his face buried in his palms, elbows on his knees and his cello lying in front of him. The other is the one producing the “music,” alternating between drawing the bow across his strings and tapping it against them. His head is bowed in either exhaustion or contemplation.

 

Curious, Jessamine leaves her Man to go to the cellist’s side. When she places a hand against his jaw he leans into it, and he does not object when she removed his paper mask. Nor does he stop playing as she tilts his head back to get a proper look at him. His white face paint has run with the sweat that mats his dark hair to his skull. What strikes her most are the red streaks of grease paint below his closed eyes, as if he had been weeping blood. As she stares, his eyes open, and they are the same cold blue as the sea, and they cut straight into her.

 

She moves quickly away, and the music goes on undisturbed. The Man gives her a strange look, but does not ask. When she joins him again, they continue their walk.

 

“How did you know me so easily?”

 

“You have a…” His waves his hand slightly in the air around her, sighs, and says no more. The motion is familiar.

 

“He told me you would come.” This gets his attention; his thundercloud gaze is less than pleasant, especially peering at her from the snarling face of a wolf.

 

“Who?”

 

“A man. Young, my age perhaps. Dark hair. Dark eyes.”

 

“I see.” His words are curt and dark, so she doesn’t press the matter. They move down a side passage, empty but for two men huddled together in sleep on a settee against the wall.

 

“Why are you here?” The question is out before Jessamine can restrain herself. She can’t help but see how uncomfortable he seems, how reluctant he is to touch her when he had seemed so eager the last time they had met. How his rough hands are now covered with thick leather.

 

“I came to warn you,” he replies, and when they reach the end of the hall, he stops, gently taking her shoulders in his hands and turning her to face him. Jessamine reaches up and pulls his mask off. It unnerves her. Underneath, he is as she remembers, if a bit more haggard. He presses on. “The political climate is changing. With the Emperor dying-“

 

“My father is not dying,” Jessamine interrupts in a sharp whisper. He exhales slowly, jaw clenched, and continues.

 

“With the Emperor sick,” he amends testily, “people are starting to talk. They’re jostling into place so they can lunge for power.”

 

“I don’t want to hear this.”

 

“You have to,” he all but snarls, taking his hands off her to clench and unclench them at his sides. “We like to pretend that life freezes between the years, but it doesn’t. The Fugue Feast exists, no matter how hard we try to convince ourselves otherwise. You have to hear it now, from me, because you may need it tomorrow. There are dark times coming. You need to be cautious. I don’t know when it will happen; it could be a week from now, or a month, or a decade, but-“

 

It’s the most she’s ever heard him say, and it’s scaring her. She looks down at the mask in her hands.

 

“So you came with no disguise,” she whispers. “A wolf among men.” He locks his arms behind his back to stay his fidgeting hands, and stares at his feet rather than meet her gaze. “You once told me you were dangerous. Are you warning me about the treachery of others, or yourself?”

 

He says nothing, which is reply enough.

 

“I liked you better tame.” She turns away from him with a heavy sigh, hugging her arms. The mask still hangs from her hand. “I had hoped…” She risks a glance back and sees that he is watching her carefully. Mild incredulity softens his features slightly.

 

“What?” he asks at last, barely audible. “What did you hope for?” And his voice is so soft in that moment, so open and raw that she almost forgives him entirely. She turns on the spot to face him again. She lifts the wolf mask to draw attention to it.

 

“The thing about costumes is that they always seem to reflect some inner truth.” She takes off her own simple mask and sets both on a window sill, then glances down at her plain civilian clothes. He takes a step toward her and she meets him halfway. “Keep your mask on,” she whispers, lightly tracing his forehead, his cheek, his jaw. “Tonight we are only human.”

 

“Here?” the man mutters, a deep furrow crossing his scarred brow. His steely eyes were fixed down the length of the long hall, but his hands slowly roamed her sides, the crest of her hips.

 

“Here,” confirms Jessamine, forcing him to look at her with a firm hand at his jaw. “Now.”

 

“Your bodyguard, where is he?”

 

“Are you afraid of Corvo?” Her surprise is genuine, but short-lived. So often, she only sees the gentler side of her shadow, and it is easy to forget that he is among the most formidable fighters in the empire, and unquestionably the most fiercely loyal man she has ever met.

 

“No, I’m not afraid of him,” her companion replies quietly, sneaking a glance back down the hall before pushing her gently back into the wall. One hand slides over the curve of her rear, pausing for only the slightest moment at the crease of her thigh. “But he is dangerous.”

 

“He’s not here.” Jessamine nuzzles his throat, savoring the smell of salt and leather on him. He exhales heavily as her hands gradually migrate from his chest, past his bandolier, and to the heavy buckle of his belt.

 

“That’s precisely what concerns me.”

 

A clock tolls in the tower, ringing out thrice. When the tone fades from the air, the only sound is their breath, coming and going in soft pants as their lips meet and part . The man fumbles with the buttons of Jessamine’s blouse, but she places her hand on his and he stops.

 

“No time,” she breathes. Her lips brush his jaw, and she works at his belt. She can feel the question in the way he’s looking down at her, the way his fingers hesitate at her waist, the way he presses his cheek against hers and waits. “You said it yourself: Corvo…” As loathe as she is to admit it, he has a point. Corvo is brave and loyal, but he does not like her seeking pleasure from other men, and it is very strange that he’s been so conspicuously absent.

 

His belt is undone, and his grip on her tightens as she slips a hand into his pants. His breath catches as she takes hold of him, and he tugs at the waist of her trousers, teasing them down a few inches. The noblewoman pulls her hands free from the tangle of his clothing to push them down past the breadth of her hips, and before she can do anything else, she is pressed to the wall, his mouth on hers. She can feel the warmth rolling off of him. Hungrily, she grabs his waist and pulls him in, pressing their bodies together as if there was no fabric between them at all.

 

A gloved hand pushes her trousers down a hair further, then slips past them to graze her thigh.

 

“Gloves off,” she demands.

 

“No,” he replies, and the conversation ends as quickly as it had started when Jessamine frees her lover’s cock from his pants. His breathing is heavy as he leans into her touch, roughly exploring her nether regions as she strokes him. She shudders when leather pushes aside silk panties to lightly brush her lips.

 

“I want-” she mouths against the hollow of his throat, and it is enough. He puts enough room between them that he can slide her trousers and panties down to her knees and then pins her to the wall again, his member hard between them. Jessamine edges along the wall to a windowsill, and he helps lift her the few inches up onto it. The masonry is cold against her skin, but she barely notices for all the heat she is producing, and the additional warmth of her lover pressing against her and into her at the same time. She gasps as he enters, and he bates his breath, but then they recover and slowly begin to move together. Her arms are slung around his neck; he has one hand pressed to the small of her back and the other braced against the window behind her.

 

A hound bays in the distance, and the man freezes, looking once again down the long hall. Jessamine nudges his legs with her knees, and his attention returns to her with a newfound fervor. He presses his forehead to hers as he sets a quicker pace. She pants softly, and when she gets too loud for his liking, he captures her mouth with his, stifling the sound.

 

He comes before she does, but she’s only moments behind, and he’s still thrusting into her when she loses herself in momentary ecstasy.

 

There’s a reptilian snarl in the corridor and a strange flash of light, and suddenly Jessamine is cold and exposed, her lover having retreated some ten feet in the blink of an eye. His belt is fastened, his mask is returned to his face, and a blade is drawn as he faces the pack of wolfhounds galloping down the hall toward him. He deliberates for a split second, shoots Jessamine an apologetic look with wolf’s eyes, and then he launches himself through an open window. The emperor’s daughter rushes to pull her pants up, the glow of sex snuffed and her heart racing uncomfortably with adrenaline. The hounds are almost upon her, and she wonders if they’ll kill her cleanly or if they’ll make a mess of it. Their long, finely scaled snouts are filled with cruel recurved teeth bared and ready to sink into her flesh.

 

“Heel.”

 

It’s a familiar voice, filled with an unfamiliar chill. The pack lurches to a stop only feet from Jessamine and turns to look at its master.

 

“Corvo,” she whispers, horrified that he had seen her like this, with _him_ , yet angry that he had ruined it. Her bodyguard stares back at her, a look in his dark eyes that is a cocktail of jealousy and betrayal, hurt and anger.

 

“My Lady,” he responds with a curt nod, and he slowly turns away from her. “If you’ll excuse me.”

 

“Corvo, wait. That’s an order.” It’s a cheap move, and they both know it, but there’s nothing Corvo can do about it. He stops where he stands, the bristle-furred hounds massed around him. “I… It’s the Fugue Feast,” she feebly attempts to explain. She blinks back the tears that are forcing themselves uninvited into her eyes.

 

“An astute observation. I have to return the hounds.”

 

“Damn the hounds, who cares!” Jessamine cries, and Corvo finally looks at her. “He… it’s just the Feast. It’s only ever been the Feast.”

 

“As if that makes it alright.”

 

“I want you, Corvo. You know that.”

 

“Do I?” The simple question stabs into her heart like an icy spear. “I just caught you _fucking a stranger-_ “

 

“He is not a stranger, and I did not appreciate your attempt to kill him!”

 

“If I intended to kill him, he would be dead.”

 

They glower at each other. The hounds whine and begin scattering, bored with the human squabble. Jessamine sighs, and presses her hands to her face.

 

“I do want you, Corvo. You protect me. You sustain me.”

 

“And he what, entertains you?” He’s bitter, and she can’t really blame him. Jessamine bites her lip and walks over to him, moving slowly and carefully as if he’s a wild animal.

 

“You are my everything,” she murmurs reassuringly, taking his rough hand in hers. “He… he is just the pinch of salt to contrast with all the wonderful things in my life. I can see the good in anything with him. Please understand…”

 

“I can’t.” There’s pain in his words. “I can’t.” She lifts his hand to her cheek, stroking it soothingly. With a troubled frown, he dips his head to kiss her, and presses his forehead against hers.

 

“Corvo…”

 

“If I see him again, I _will_ kill him,” Corvo warns her quietly as he draws away, and she drops his hand. “Enjoy the rest of the Feast, my Lady.”

 

He is silent as he moves down the hall in long strides, wolfhounds falling in behind him.

 

Jessamine does not call after him again. She knows the storm will blow over, but only when it has run its course. And she will wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud is not as pleasant as he was last year. But we still love him. Also in which Corvo continues to be unhappy with the company Jessamine keeps. Poor guy.
> 
> For the curious, Daud's business is booming, and it's gotten a bit out of hand. The Outsider has taken interest in him. He can see the impending betrayal, and it's -fascinating.-


	3. Squall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything changes when you have children. Even the Fugue Feast. Especially the Fugue Feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: ridiculous fluff levels.Which is just as well, methinks. Storm's rolling in.

They never actually hear the tower bell strike midnight over the shrieks of baby Emily. Corvo has her in his arms, and he restlessly paces the length of Jessamine’s room with her. Jessamine is sitting on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, fingers jammed against the bridge of her nose. The baby was running a mild fever and had been squalling on and off for hours.

 

“You’re sure she’s okay?” Jessamine asks for the fifth time, and Corvo patiently nodded as he turned back toward her.

 

“Babies cry.”

 

“She’s crying a lot,” the woman says, stating the obvious.

 

“I’ve noticed,” comes the dry response. Both have dark rings under their eyes from lack of sleep, and neither looks exactly _awake._ “She doesn’t feel good so she screams, the screaming makes her feel worse. She hasn’t gotten any more sleep than we have.”

 

“I wish my mother were here,” Jessamine groans. Judging by the way Corvo’s mouth tightens when Emily bellows in his ear with newfound vigor, he does too. “What did your mother do when your younger siblings cried like this?”

 

Corvo starts to say he doesn’t remember, that he had been taken away from his mother so young that the memories were lost, but the words don’t come. He _can_ remember.

 

“…She sang.” He frowns as he thinks, and then he slowly hums a disjointed tune to the baby in his arms. He struggles in parts; the song is almost entirely forgotten, and only instinct brings the tune back to him.

 

“I know that one,” Jessamine says suddenly, standing and coming to his side to sing with him. “The sun goes down in the fishing town, the people go to sleep… the cats around all go lay down and mice make not a peep...”

 

“My mother sang in Serkonan,” Corvo mused quietly, the memories slowly returning to him. It had been a long time since he thought of his mother. “The mice get eaten in that version, and the cats go to sleep because they’re so satisfied with themselves.” Jessamine huffs out a laugh. Emily stares at them both with teary eyes, quieted by their song, but they can see her taking in a breath to start again and both quickly jump into the song again.

 

“The hounds all doze, chins on their toes, and children lie in bed, safe and sound with cat and hound, all of them well fed.”

 

“Told you, the cats eat the mice,” Corvo murmurs, and Jessamine laughs outright. To their surprise, Emily giggles with them. Jessamine stares in disbelief, but Corvo nudges her with an elbow. “Well, don’t stop now!” He passes Emily to her mother, and goes to sit on the bed and watching. Three months, it’s been, and Jessamine still holds Emily as though she’s made of glass. A weary smile graces his lips as his Lady continues to croon quietly to her child. Emily had quieted down enough now that they can hear the music and voices from across the river. The people were celebrating the Fugue Feast with particular gusto this year. Corvo blames, in part, the political tension of late. The aristocracy has been growing restless under the Emperor’s rule, and there have been stirrings among the common folk in the lower city. If they could spend some of that pent up aggression during the Feast rather than in a revolt, Corvo would be more than happy.

 

Jessamine crosses the room to the cradle. Emily has calmed somewhat, and doesn’t complain when her mother lowers her to the soft mattress and drapes a knit blanket over her. Then, with a heavy sigh, the noblewoman walks over to Corvo with none of the elegance she usually has. He doesn’t care; when she sits beside him, he wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her temple.

 

“Do you think she’ll let us sleep?” she asks, leaning her head against his.

 

“Worth a shot,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. Jessamine tugs his coat from his shoulders and throws it to the floor. Neither of them care if it gets dirty. His sword and pistol stay at the bedside, resting in easy reach on the nightstand. He is good and gentle, but also somewhat paranoid, and he has made it clear how little he likes the Fugue Feast. Jessamine doesn’t want to ruin the night by saying something. When Corvo is down to his smallclothes, they collapse into bed. Corvo tugs her body against his, and she arches her back against him, content to feel him there, a warm, safe presence.

 

They doze for an immeasurable time, waking and falling back asleep in turns as Emily makes small noises or the crowds across the river make big ones. At some point Jessamine twists around in Corvo’s arms, waking him. They sleepily exchange a kiss, and another, eyes only half-open. Their fingers skate across skin, roaming without purpose apart from enjoying each other’s company.

 

“Sleep with me,” Jessamine purrs. Corvo smiles lazily.

 

“I already am.”

 

“Make love to me, then,” Jessamine counters, bridging the narrow gap between them to run her hand down his arm. His smile widens slightly, and his tired eyes crinkle with a mirth that few people ever see.

 

“As you wish.” He presses his lips to hers, gentle and slow, but they soon find their way to the soft curve of her throat, to her pale shoulder. She hums contentedly, and her leg finds its way over his hip, tugging him closer. She can feel his member against her thigh, semihard, and languidly rolls against it. She can feel him smiling against her shoulder, and in that moment, she knows that this truly is love.

 

The sheets rustle as he crosses his leg over hers and hooks his ankle underneath in an attempt to get as close to her as he can. His hand plays at her hip, and her fingers are twined in his hair. In the daylight, she begs him to cut it, but come nightfall, she simply can’t imagine lying next to him with nothing to run her hands through. She hears what sounds suspiciously like a chuckle as she gently uses her purchase to bring his lips back to hers, and she knows that he can tell what she’s thinking. She scolds him with a playful glance, then reaches down between them. Taking gentle hold of him, she nudges him a hair closer with her heel, and guides him into her.

 

They lie like that for a time, enjoying the simple congress. After a while, Corvo sets a slow rhythm. She leans her forehead against his, their noses brushing, and smiles sweetly at him. He grants her a tiny smile in response as he presses into her again.

 

A climax never comes, but neither of them mind. Their goal is not release, but communion. Lady and Bodyguard press together, seamless but separate, meshed together as if they had been created to fit perfectly against each other. Sighs of pleasure give way to yawns, and their eyes drift shut to the sound of distant celebration.

 

It lasts only an our or so before Emily wakes again. Corvo groans and pulls a pillow over his head, still groggy with sleep. Jessamine rolls onto her back and grimaced at the canopy of her bed.

 

“Your turn,” Corvo grumbles, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Probably hungry.”

 

“I know,” she concedes, and she takes a deep breath before rolling out of bed and straightening her gown. “I’ll take her for a walk; the halls are cooler than the room and except for my father and Francine, I think we’re the only ones left on the island.” Corvo mumbles something, but it’s lost in the goose down. She assumes it’s a go-ahead, and lifts Emily from her cradle. The baby girl immediately paws for a breast, but the crying just keeps going.

 

“Patience,” Jessamine croons wearily, slipping one shoulder strap down to grant the child access to a breast. Emily latches on immediately, and she can actually hear Corvo’s sigh of relief from across the room. “I’ll be back soon,” she tells him, and she slips out of the room, baby cradled to her chest.

 

She walks down the long halls, savoring the silence. Even when Emily is healthy and calm, there are always servants and guards milling about, and shouting from the courtyard below the windows. Now, the quiet is sweet, and she dreads the moment when Emily decides she’s had her fill. Normally the babe is so easy-going, but this fever had come on quite suddenly. Sokolov insisted it was nothing to worry about, and had administered a mild medication just in case, but now it is the constant screaming that was driving her and her guardian out of their minds, not concern. They both love the child, but neither quite knew what to do with her when she is suddenly so difficult.

 

“Lady Jessamine,” a heavily filtered voice suddenly sounds from behind her. She nearly jumps out of her skin with shock, whirling around to face the speaker; Emily relinquishes her meal in favor of resuming her squalling. Standing there is a man in a dark coat, a bandolier crossing his chest. On his face is the mask of a whaler, obscuring his entire face. Jessamine’s mouth falls open, and she struggles to find words.

 

“I- you-“

 

“I come with a message,” the man tells her, holding his ground. Jessamine realizes with a start that this isn’t _her_ man, but one in a matching uniform. He is narrower than _her_ man, and uncertain of her. _Her_ man would not be speaking to her from fifteen feet away.

 

“Tell me,” Jessamine says, barely audible over the banshee shrieks of her child.

 

“Only half of the message can be told. My master instructed me to tell you ‘it will happen soon; you must prepare.’” The man edges closer, and she realizes he is holding something. “This is the other half of the message.” He holds the object out to her, and she takes it in the hand that is not supporting her baby. It’s a wooden wolf mask.

 

“He said nothing else? Why is he not here?” Jessamine asks sharply.

 

“He thought it… unwise. I can say no more.” The man turns to leave, but Jessamine holds up a hand to stop him.

 

“Wait. One more thing. Does he know I have a child?” She glances down at Emily, who is starting to resemble a very loud beet moreso than a baby.

 

“The whole Empire knows,” the masked man replies slowly. “Your business is everyone’s business.”

 

“Tell him I have a daughter. Emily. She’s three months old. Normally she’s very well behaved, very healthy. Tell him.”

 

“My Lady, he knows-“

 

“Just tell him,” Jessamine snaps, “and tell him… tell him there will be no more Fugue Feasts.” The man falls silent for a long moment, salutes, and vanishes in a burst of blue light. She gapes at the spot where he had stood only a moment earlier, blinks, and then begins the return circuit to her room. Emily wears herself out with her own screaming just as they arrive, but the small victory means nothing in light of the message she has just been given. A wolf among men, he was, and he sends a warning when time does not exist…

 

She stows the mask away in a drawer, and crawls back into bed next to her love. Corvo welcomes her back with a murmur, and wraps a comforting arm around her. She is asleep within a minute.

* * *

 

In the hour before dawn, a shadow slips in through a window. He takes silent note of the two figures on the bed, limbs tangled intimately, and moves on to the cradle where Emily is dozing, her face still red from screaming. He reaches gently in and takes the baby’s pillow, cradling her skull in his large hand and gently lowering it to the blankets. He removes a small knife from its sheath on his belt and carefully cuts along the seam of the pillow. He slips what looks like a piece of carved whalebone into the hole, where it vanishes among the goose down, and then deftly sews the seam shut again with a bit of waxed thread. The pillow is carefully replaced, and though Emily gurgles slightly as he tucks her in, she does not wake up or scream.

 

The fever breaks before Jessamine and Corvo rise, and Emily does not squall again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daud's message is in regard to Jessamine's father, as hinted at last chapter and early this chapter. Daud assassinates him when the Feast ends, along with his Protector, vaulting Jessamine suddenly (if not unexpectedly) into power (and greater danger, setting the stage for DIshonored). I may eventually write a parallel from Daud's POV, maybe, maybe...


	4. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been ten years. The Empress has fallen, her bodyguard incriminated, her daughter vanished. Half the city is sick, and the other half is dead. Loyalists come into power, promising change, but everything is the same. And in the Flooded District, a very angry man seeks out an assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.

Finding Daud has been easy, very easy. Corvo moves through the building like bladed shadow, silently cutting down foes and leaving their bodies nestled in dark corners, body trembling only slightly as he drags them across the floor. The holes in his defenses feel deliberate and set Corvo on edge, but he relaxes slightly as the going remains easy. Daud has made himself comfortable on an upper level, and it is almost too simple to possess his guard and walk him into the hallway, leaving the man alone in his office. Daud does not look up, preoccupied as he is with the many documents on his desk.

 

It was well enough for Corvo, who steps cleanly out of his host’s body the moment they are out of sight and snags a forearm across his throat. A quick chokehold while the whaler is disoriented is more than sufficient to remove him from the equation.

 

He struggles to lift the body in his rapidly weakening arms, stows him away against a wall, and creeps back to the open door. His vision magnifies with a small whir and click, and he peers into the face of the man who had murdered Jessamine, for the first time able to really examine the scars and lines of his face, the hard set of his mouth, the flatness in his eyes.

 

Behind him is a wall of faces. Jessamine’s is there, layered above the rest. A great red “X” is dashed across her face, obscuring her fine features. It is too much red. His heart clenches with its partner in his breast pocket.

 

Corvo blinks across the room in two sweeps, materializing once behind a bookcase and then behind the assassin himself. He is silent as he readies his blade, breath bated, and careful that his shadow does not cast over Daud’s shoulder. As his target leans forward to pore more carefully over the letters scattered across his desk, Corvo leans in as well, collapsible blade gleaming as he raises it, tip pointing in toward the soft spot between shoulder and spine.

 

Then he sees it.

 

He only catches a glimpse, but a glimpse was enough- he recognizes it instantly. In a split second, his vision tears from Daud and to a heap of ammunition crates stacked to the left of the desk. On top perches a tooled leather mask. It is dusty and he knows it to be over ten years old, but the leather is still supple, the graceful beak and engraved feathers still plainly visible. It is, without question, one of a kind, which raises questions Corvo knows he must ask but dreads to hear answers to.

 

Corvo does not lower his blade, but seizes Daud by the collar and hauls him back into a cold embrace. The assassin is larger than Corvo by far, tall and healthy and well fed, but a blade to the throat can be very persuasive. Daud does not struggle against the arm the Lord Protector has coiled around his throat. To his credit, he does not cry out, either.

 

“Corvo,” he acknowledges quietly and calmly. “I had wondered when you would show up.”

 

“The mask,” Corvo hisses through the fabric and metal of his mask. Even to himself, his voice sounds almost feral with hunger and grief, but he doesn’t care. Daud seems confused, so Corvo takes it upon himself to elaborate. With a sharp jerk, he forces Daud’s head back, and shuffles both of them forward until the leather mask is the only thing the leader of the whalers can possibly see.

 

“Ah,” Daud says then, and quickly falls silent.

 

“Did you steal it?” The blade tip descends to push Daud’s collar aside and rest at his pulse. “When you murdered her?” Corvo’s voice breaks slightly, and it is impossible to tell if it is sorrow or madness to blame. “Where did you get it? Tell me!” A bead of dark blood rolls down Daud’s neck, absorbed into the white fabric of his undershirt..

 

“It was given to me.”

 

“By who? A sick collector of dead women’s belongings?” Disgust fills his voice. Daud’s jaw clenches, but he remains calm.

 

“By the Empress. Jessamine gave it-“

 

“Don’t lie to me!” The sword tip crawls a centimeter forward, cutting neatly through thin flesh, inviting blood to flow freely. Much further, or much deeper, and Daud will die. Corvo coughs hoarsely, and the blade jitters slightly, teasing more blood to the surface.

 

The assassin lets out a quiet choke, and Corvo realizes his grip has gradually tightened, and now strangles the man. Daud begins to struggle lightly; Corvo lets up the pressure in response, but does not give him any room for escape.

 

“Not lying,” Daud gasps quietly. “She gave it to me a long time ago. Twelve, thirteen years. Fugue Feast.” Corvo freezes.

 

“You…”

 

“Yes.”

 

Corvo remains silent, but maintains his grip on Daud for several long minutes. Abruptly, he releases the assassin, and Daud stumbles away, drawing his sword as Corvo reaches into his coat.

 

The Lord Protector pulls the Heart from his pocket, cradled in the palm of his left hand. Daud’s eyebrows pinch inward.

 

“You’re mad, the poison took your wits.”

 

“Shut up,” Corvo hisses in quick reply, and his fingers clench clawlike around the Heart, which Daud now sees is pulsing weakly in his grip. Corvo stares at it, and squeezes it again. “No,” he whispers, and there is something broken in him. The sword falls from his hand with a clatter.

 

Daud has been edging for the open window, but now he stops. Corvo is taking his mask off, hand scrabbling at the edge of the metal, tugging it free.

 

Blood streams in smeared channels down hollow cheeks. He glances from the skull mask to the kingsparrow, and with a sudden snarl flings his mask across the room. The motion throws him off balance; he stumbles, catches himself on Daud’s desk, and lowers himself to the floor, leaving a bloody handprint across a pile of contracts.

 

“You’re sick,” Daud cautions, feeling to be sure he has some sleep darts on his belt. The mask landed near him; he bends and picks it up. Blood stains the inner surface.

 

“You,” Corvo mutters, and Daud isn’t sure who he’s talking to until those haunted dark eyes turn on him, full of loathing and pain. “She- Em- _you_ -“

 

“Stop,” Daud says, disliking where he was going, but Corvo goes on regardless, the Heart fluttering in the iron cage of his grasp.

 

“Emily was born in… she was born… from the Feast to Hearths is nine…” His crazed mutterings give way to horrified silence, and he releases his brutal grip on the Heart. It rolls to the floor between them, where it shudders and throbs unevenly.

 

“Emily is mine,” Daud confirms uneasily, and the realization disturbs him. So does the way Corvo stares at him.

 

“You killed-“

 

“Yes.”

 

“You _kidnapped_ -“

 

“Yes!”

 

“But how?”

 

Daud looks at his wall of completed assassinations, but he doesn’t need to. He knows the name and face of every target, and exactly how much each hit had earned him. He knows the exact point where he stopped killing to survive and started killing to support and protect his followers, orphans and immigrants all as unwanted in this world as him.

 

“I had to… I thought I had to.”

 

“There’s always a choice,” Corvo grates, and he bares his teeth in an unsettling smile. The mark on his hand glows.

 

“Are you suicidal?!” Daud snarls, glancing around for high ground.

 

“ _I’m already dead_.”

 

With a flash, hundreds of rats materialize in the room, screeching and clawing each other for flesh. Daud swipes at them with his sword, leaps back, and blinks on top of a tall bookshelf. He can feel Corvo’s feverish gaze on him, and there is another flash as a monstrous gust of wind roars through the office, tearing papers from his desk, flinging books from shelves, and lifting rats from the floor in a wall of teeth headed straight for him.

 

The animals hit him like a sledgehammer, knocking him backwards off his perch. He hits the floor with a jolt of pain, and the weight of hundreds of rodents makes it difficult to breathe. They are tearing at his exposed face and hands. For a moment, he thinks he may actually die.

 

He freezes time. The rats are pushed away, and he clambers shakily to his feet. His ribs are bruised, but he’s been through worse. He stumbles toward Corvo, who is sprawled across the floor. A cracked empty vial of Piero’s Remedy lies next to him, and Daud knows he would be dead if there had been any left for his adversary to consume.

 

Corvo coughs weakly, flecks of blood spattering across the floorboards, and Daud realizes that he is immune to stopped time. The assassin bends down and hoists Corvo’s frail form over his shoulder.

 

“Sorry,” Corvo is sobbing into his back. “Sorry, sorry…” The apology is not for Daud, who ignores it, instead opening a chest and digging for the black clothes he has not worn since the death of Jessamine’s father.

 

 As time begins to move again, Daud moves to the open window and blinks out. The sun is setting, and he has something he needs to do.


	5. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Empress takes the throne, and a masked man sails across the sea, his Heart in his hand.

The next morning, Emily Kaldwin is safe in the hands of her guard, her captors dead in the tower. Many people ask her what happened, but she remembers little other than the sight of Corvo’s mask. Nobody notices the spent sleep dart on the floor near the room she was kept in.

 

At the Hound Pits Pub, the Royal Physician is found in the company of a fellow scientist, barricaded within their workshop. They claim to have seen a man dressed in black and a steel skull mask annihilating the men who had them trapped. The explosions of tallboys lit up the dusky sky like fireworks. If the man destroying them was taller or broader than the physicians remembered, they say nothing of it.

 

Across the city, Corvo’s body is found on a rooftop in the flooded district after an anonymous tip is left with a guard captain. In his hand is a drawing of himself by Emily, smiling and rosy-cheeked. His cheeks are now cold and crusted over with maroon blood. He is returned to Dunwall Tower for a hero’s funeral. He will be laid to rest next to the late Empress.

 

His mask is never found.

 

On a ship halfway to Serkonos, a man sits in the shadows of his cabin. He speaks in whispers to a fluttering something in his hands.

 

“What did you tell him?” he asks again and again.

 

_It is impossible to tell if he wears a mask, or if he has become it_ , a mournful voice finally whispers back, just for his ears. It whispers other things, too, things that hurt to hear, about the captain, the sailors, about Corvo, about himself.

 

When Emily goes to change for the funeral upon returning to the Tower, her home, she finds a note folded in her pocket.

 

_Emily,_ it reads,

 

_I am sorry it ended how it did. You deserved better._

_Know you were loved._

_With regrets,_

_Your Father_

**Author's Note:**

> So all we know about Daud is that he was taken by a man/men as a child after it was noticed he had nimble hands on the playground, suggesting he was either trained to be a thief or assassin from a young age. I’m leaning towards thief, Oliver Twist style, and he kind of grew into spy/assassinhood as an adult. The Daud I wrote here is not as dark and jaded as in-game Daud because he’s much younger, and hasn’t been visited by the Outsider yet.
> 
> As for Jessamine, well. We don’t really know anything about her, do we?
> 
> Thinking about sequels...


End file.
